B.O.M.E. aka, "Basement of Monstruous Entities"

You've heard of C.H.U.D., right? A middling '80's horror film regarding "Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers?" Now do you remember it? The late John Heard and Daniel Stern? No? Doesn't matter. (Come to think of it, I believe I worked with several C.H.U.D. at my last job.)

Anyway, welcome to "B.O.M.E.," the Midwestern cousins of the C.H.U.D. Maybe not the entire Midwest, but my basement, for sure.

I first became aware of these terrifying nocturnal monsters when my wife decided we had to clean up the basement. Until that point, I had used the basement for a repository for all of the crap I thought I might find useful later down the road. You know, I'm talking large Styrofoam packaging pieces, broken chairs and lamps, ages old and mildewed children's toys, you name it. Far from a hoarder (but probably straddling the hoarder border), I never met an empty box I didn't like.

Anyway, the clean-up process was vast, requiring a rented dumpster. We filled that big boy up with at least 10,000 moldy videotapes, my empire of dirt. That was tough as I unloaded box after box of my lifetime savings into the dumpster. Hell, who woulda thought videotapes could get moldy?

Then the process of cleaning down the old, lumpy stone walls came next. You see, this ain't no yuppie finished basement we're talking here. It's a perfect place for a haunting. Built during one of the wars, the basement is a mess of bad wiring and plumbing, crumbling stone walls, the site of many a flood, webs of gargantuan arachnids, inexplicable leaves, and...yes, monsters.

"Honey," I called out to my wife, "you gotta come see this." I stood before a crevice in the wall, fingering an orange gelatinous goo (for you see, apparently I've not learned anything from watching '50's horror and science fiction movies).

She joined my side. "What?"

"Look...you ever seen anything like it?"

Clearly frustrated, she said, "No, get back to work."

But I knew. Yes, I knew the truth. B.O.M.E.

I had forgotten about them for several years. But they existed, I knew this in the darkest recesses of my haunted mind. One insomniac night as I lay in bed, I heard proof of them.

Thump...tump...timp...timp...thump...

I sat up, terrified. And listened to make certain it wasn't part of a half-lucid dream.

TUMP! Timp...timp...timp...

I lay in bed wide awake until the sun rose, listening to the horrific, foul creatures of the underworld using the network of our heating ducts for their transportation highway. Taunting me because I slept right next to a main vent. 

THUMP!

 I imagined all sorts of nightmarish creatures: there were man rats with huge, bulging eyes and teeth a bunny would be envious of; slithery, goo-dropping, albino slugs with large glaring eyeballs that waved on antenna stalks; and little orange-colored, bad-haired, narcissistic monster men taking over the basement.

My wife awoke shortly after the calamity had stopped. I told her of the monsters in the basement. She responded with a "yes, dear" and patted my poor, lil' over-worked head. 

I searched the basement (in the daylight, mind you) for physical proof of their existence. I found more orange goo. And strange pyramids of sticks, cracked acorns...and were those...bones?

I questioned my sanity until one fateful night when my wife heard them, too.

They're down there. Oh, yes, they are. And your basement may be next!

While on the topic of my spooky basement, it did inspire one of the creepiest hauntings I've committed to paper in one of my earliest books, Neighborhood Watch. Read it with the lights one. And don't say I didn't warn you. Like all of my books, it's 100% true!

Time-Tripping with YA Author, Tammy Lowe

This week, I'm turning my blog over to long-time friend and terrific YA writer, Tamara Lowe. She'll take you through time based on her travels through Rome which informs her fascinating new book, The Sleeping Giant. 

So instead of stinking up the joint (as I usually do) with tales of woe about my posterior, I now hand you over to a class act, Tammy...

As a young girl, I dreamed of being a time-traveller. I wanted to wear long dresses and bonnets and have daring adventures like the heroines in my favorite books. 

When I grew up, it became clear that my passport is the closest thing to a time-machine I’ll probably ever own. The historians and Egyptologists I meet are the far-way friends in distant lands, leading me through their ancient worlds.

Marissa was a gorgeous Roman archeologist, with long brown hair and a thick Italian accent. She looked like the real-life female lead in any Dan Brown novel. You know…the incredibly intelligent woman who ends up tangled in Robert Langdon’s latest feat. We’d just left the Coliseum’s “backstage” area beneath the floor of the arena—where gladiators awaited battles, often to the death. 

 

After a short walk along the cobblestone streets, Marissa stopped outside of a rather boring-looking building. I had no idea its faded yellow walls hid what could almost be considered a time machine.

What’s the rush? I wondered as she raced through a 12^th century basilica and down a flight of stairs.

It was then I realized we were traveling back in time. 

Hidden beneath the medieval basilica was another church—this one built in the 4^th century. Painted frescoes decorated the dark, underground space. I noticed the craftsmanship of the brick walls were more primitive, even to my untrained eye, than those of the church built above it.

“Follow me,” Marissa insisted, leading the way even further back in time.

After descending another flight of stairs, we stopped in the 2^nd century AD.  Here, we stumbled upon a pagan temple dedicated to the god Mithra— its stone altar positioned in the middle of the room. My eyes widened, noticing that instead of being even more primitive, the ancient brick walls were skillfully built. I couldn’t help but wonder how much knowledge was truly lost during the Dark Ages.

In the distance, I heard water flowing. Curious, I asked where it was coming from.

   

With a grin, Marissa led me still further back in time...now to the 1^st century, where the main sewer of Ancient Rome still flows. 

In 64 AD, legend says that Emperor Nero played a fiddle while Rome burnt to the ground. Many of the destroyed buildings were filled in and used as foundations for the new construction. The one Marissa and I stood in is believed to have once been the Imperial Mint before it was destroyed by the Great Fire. A mansion and apartments were then built in that spot and later several churches, each one layered atop the last— like lasagna.

As I stared down at the dirt floor, I couldn’t help but imagine the sort of people who’d walked that very spot two thousand years ago; perhaps a young runaway slave being pursued by a ruthless slave trader or a wise old philosopher on his way to advise some long-forgotten senator.

Figure 1: Ancient Roman sewer grate at city sidewalk. 1st century AD.

If you travel south of Rome, toward the Bay of Naples, you’ll find an infamous town frozen in time: Pompeii.

In 79 AD, Mt. Vesuvius erupted with the force of over a thousand nuclear bombs. However, many people didn’t even try to flee the volcanic eruption because they didn’t understand what was happening. They thought the gods were angry. Within twenty-four hours, not a trace of Pompeii remained. The city—and its inhabitants—were buried beneath layers of volcanic ash and pumice.

Over the centuries it simply became a forgotten legend. 

But…in the 1700’s, men working on a new palace for the King of Naples rediscovered Pompeii hidden twenty feet below them.

The amazing part is that as the volcanic ash hardened over time, the bodies trapped within decomposed, leaving behind what was basically…a mold. When these molds were filled with plaster, the results were life-like statues of the people who died that day; their agonizing final moments preserved forever.

 Figure 2: Plaster casts of victims killed in Pompeii. 79 AD.

Despite being a Victorian and Regency loving-little-soul, it was intimidating Ancient Rome that somehow stole my heart. I knew I had to set my latest novel in this time period. I longed to play off the terrifying volcanic eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in the final scenes.

But…was I crazy enough to attempt to write a book set in Ancient Rome? The research alone would take forever.

Apparently, yes.

I am crazy enough.

After three more years of research, a second trip to both Rome and Pompeii, I’d completely fallen head-over-heels in love with that ancient world.

I hope you will too.

YA Historical Time Travel Adventure

Lured into time-traveling to Ancient Rome, weeks before a volcanic eruption will bury the city of Pompeii, a shy teenager finds herself falling for the adventurous runaway slave she is supposed to rescue.

MuseItUp http://bit.ly/2S8PHtW
Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07JD44YYS
B&N http://bit.ly/2CYSUba
iBooks https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1439019487
Kobo http://bit.ly/2POUmPR

*Print Copy Coming Soon*

About the Author:
An adventurer at heart, Tammy Lowe has explored ruins in Rome, Pompeii, and Istanbul (Constantinople) with historians and archaeologists.

She’s slept in the tower of a 15th century castle in Scotland, climbed down the cramped tunnels of Egyptian pyramids, scaled the Sydney Harbour Bridge, sailed on a tiny raft down the Yulong River in rural China, dined at a Bedouin camp in the Arabian Desert, and escaped from head-hunters in the South Pacific.

I suppose one could say her own childhood wish of time traveling adventures came true…in a roundabout way. 
www.tammylowe.com

Adventures in the Amazon Day Six: Spiritual Healing in the Jungle

I'm kinda skeptical by nature. Which is a funny way to phrase it: "by nature." Because during our eight days in the jungle, "nature" challenged some of my earlier, stubborn notions.

Me in all my glory getting dowsed by a shaman!

Jungle Momma, the amazing organizer of our trip, is--like my wife and many others in our party--a pharmacist. These days, however, she resides in Iquitos and the jungle, soaking up all the information she can regarding the vast, untapped, and downright amazing array of herbal and plant medicines available in the jungle. She's also been apprenticing with a shaman for the past twenty years.

Antonio, the Maestro!

Which brings me to Antonio, el Maestro Magia! Antonio, one of the last of the red-hot shamans, is a fascinating guy. He carries within him immense knowledge passed down from previous shamans, sadly the end of the line. Since his village civilized and moved into Iquitos with direct TV dishes, no one's interested in carrying on the shamanic traditions any longer, preferring the sparkly, new-fangled allure of Western medicine. A shame.

Antonio's part miracle worker, part doctor, part magician, and a pinch of dirty ol' man. Maybe even a sliver of Catskills vaudeville stand-up comic. Savvier than he appears, he pretends to not speak English at all, although we had our suspicions.  During his stay at our lodge, he was sequestered in the back conference room, down a very long walkway and closer to the jungle, because he can't handle all of the city energy in the lodge for too long. Yet, the reach of civilization has touched Antonio, too. Wearing an Americanized ballcap, emblazoned with the letter "M," and duded out in designer jeans and stylin' kicks, he resembled a tourist emulating American style (or lack thereof). I so wanted the "M" on his cap to stand for "magic." Alas, it was a corporate symbol for Iquitos' mega supplier of cable TV and cell phone plans.

The stories surrounding Antonio are amazing. With one look he diagnosed someone's cancer with his "MRI vision." He healed someone's growing fungal attack with jungle plants when all  Western medicine failed. Father of many, lover of even more, no one truly knows Antonio's age, but it's guestimated at around 82 or so. Given that, he's in better shape than I am, leaping off boats with ease and (terrifyingly) running through the jungle bare-foot.

El Maestro Magia!

Our first night in the jungle lodge, Antonio arranged a group blessing. This consisted of our donning our swimsuits; one by one, he doused us with a bucket of cold water with flowers stirred into the mix. His blessing went untranslated. For all I know, he could've been singing the Brady Bunch theme song.

We were then given the option of having a personal, spiritual healing session with el Maestro Magia. I waffled back and forth, wanting to experience it, yet fearful of what he might find out about my health. Did I believe in his unexplained abilities? I don't know. But I was afraid enough to waffle. And after the stories I'd been told by intelligent, sane people, I'd be a fool to dismiss Antonio's talents out-of-hand. So, I continued to waffle. Man, can I waffle, more waffling than the local IHOP, a waffling talent I've perfected over many years of waffling. I mean, if I've got some kind of necrotic skin disease, isn't it better to not know about it until the last second?

At the last moment, I took a giant leap of faith over my waffles and landed in Antonio's domain, off the griddle and into the frying pan. 

I entered the circular room, empty except for Antonio sitting to the side in a folding chair, head bowed. I approached him, shook his hand. Quietly he muttered something, gestured toward the folding chair across from him. I sat. He slapped some kinda nice-smelling oil on my face and doubled down on my head (I kinda think he liked the feel of my slick pate as he gave it a few extra smacks). A cigar was lit as he smoked herbal tobacco, constantly blowing it on me as he whistled a nameless, tuneless song. I closed my eyes, went with it, tried to "get out of my head" as I was instructed (usually an impossible task; I mean where else am I gonna go?), as he brushed palm leaves all over me.

I'm not sure what happened, but something did. The constant rustling of the dried leaves fell into a drum-like pattern. Pungent, rich smoke transported me elsewhere. With my eyes shut, I envisioned the past, ancient tribes beating drums, dancing around a fire, a community of respect for Mother Earth.

A duck-like call at my temples brought me back; Antonio sucking out the bad energy from my head. When it ended, I was disappointed. Eyes still closed, I waited. Finally, Antonio said, "okay," a universal word. I opened my eyes, felt comfortably numb, rested yet exhilarated.

I stumbled out to the communal hammock/nap room and just lay there contemplating my navel for half an hour.

Was I really transported back in time? No. Probably just my writerly senses propelling me into a flight of fantasy. But I felt more rested, comfortable, and at peace than I had for a while. It also made me consider bigger issues than my rather small Kansas City backyard.

Other members of our group experienced different things. My wife felt connected to water. She said, "We're moving close to water." I said, "Okay, as long as there's air conditioning."

Another person felt a shoulder wound heal and the word "metaphysical" kept bouncing around his mind. One woman said it felt like the aftermath of a really great massage. I couldn't argue with that. Another guy shrugged, said, "it was alright."

Of course Antonio also strongly believes in love potions, so there's that. And he's a huge proponent of the sexual potency enhancement power of rum...but that's a story for a future post.

Speaking of unexplainable things, check out Zombie Rapture, a very different kind of zombie tale. You've been warned... 

Adventures in the Amazon: An American Ox in the Jungle

I don't camp. Never have, never will. Nature and I don't get along. If I so much as glance at poison ivy, I turn into a giant blister bubble. On the other hand, my wife loves camping and nature. Everything that is nature except for...the unspeakable eight-legged critters. She suffers from a truly bad case of arachnophobia. 

My wife (kinda, sorta) avoiding arachnids in the jungle (what she doesn't know won't kill her.)

Over the course of our trip, several people thought they could cure my wife's fears easy-peasy with some Dr. Phil nonsense: "Oh, the best way to conquer your fear is to face it." Someone else tried the routine of "no, no, spiders are good! They bla, bla, bla..." While their intentions were good, they've never witnessed my wife jump out of a moving car once she spotted a spider. While she was driving. Twice.

So, for obvious reasons, people thought we were crazy for going to the jungle.

My wife, um, enjoying the floor.

Me, I possess the grace of a big, lumbering meth-head trying to thread a needle. Getting in and out of the boat proved extremely problematic. Our guide, Victor--an amiable sort, fluent in English and bird-song--grew weary of my (literally) rocking the boat. Constantly, he told me to "slow down, slow down." But he didn't understand speed was the only way I kept from falling, sheer momentum my only ally. Amazingly, I didn't capsize the boat, but I capsized myself a couple of times. 

Victor standing at ease and defying gravity in our boat.

Once, Victor wanted to redistribute weight throughout the boat so he instructed me to move back a bench. I'd successfully moved myself back before by just using my arms and swinging my body backward, so I thought I could do it again. Methinks I'd forgotten the 50 pound backpack attached to my body. I fell between the benches, legs up in the air like half-price day at the old-West brothel. A particularly poor day to wear white pants (and what the hell was I thinking wearing white pants into the jungle anyway? SO dumb.). 

A good larf was had by all (except for me and my wounded pride. Not to mention my wounded arse).

Falling isn't anything new for me. Gravity and balance are not my friends. While escorting us across wooden planks to the local jungle health clinic, Victor remarked on one of our cohorts' very good balance. I said, "I think she has better balance than me." 

Victor readily agreed. "Much better," he said. "Much, much better."

Of COURSE nature just loves Victor.

So there I am, floundering around in the jungle, trying my damnedest not to fall on snakes or worse, planting my feet ploddingly, arms out like a new-born tyke learning to walk. Hardly jungle material.

Back to that health clinic... The Yanamano Clinic--a small, humid as hell building just off the river--is run by a doctor from Wisconsin and services the locals (or at least those who've embraced Western medicine). The doctor, understandably frustrated by the government's lack of aid, caring and health care, ripped through a list of her recent patients and their alarming ailments. Needless to say, machete wounds topped the list. A sobering (and sweltering) visit, it truly made me grateful for what we take for granted in the States.

Solar-powered (and without air conditioning, natch), the small operating room was a sparsely lit hot-box where the doctor sweats over her patients while sewing them up. Recently, a fan had been installed (a huge deal) and a bright light bulb had been donated (again, victory). Doctors Without Borders swung by one day with good intentions and big ideas, but little could truly be done. It's a very bleak situation for both the locals and the doctors because help doesn't come from many places. And the locals are uneducated about their own ailments and what modern medicine can do for them. 

Later, I was told this was one of the better clinics. At least there weren't holes in the ceiling.

On the way out of the clinic, I made a big mistake, a huge one.

As we left the clinic, I held the door open for everyone because Mom taught me to be a gentleman. Our boat driver, Walker, glared menacingly at me as he slowly walked through my proffered opened door. Victor, our guide, actually stopped dead in his tracks, stared at me. He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and hurried through the door. Hands flailing, they chatted animatedly and angrily back to our boat. Clearly I'd done something to offend them.

Only later did I realize my whoopsie moment. 

The culture of Peru is muy machismo. Men are men and the very mention of a "metrosexual" will get you beat up. Men drive motokars and women work in the kitchen, end of story. However, the men are fooling themselves, for women truly rule the roost. It's a very sexist culture, but only superficially so. Regardless, men take their manly manliness very manfully.

Things weren't right between Victor and myself until the end of the trip.

Friendsies again! (L to R: My wife, Victor, me, Jungle Momma Connie)

On the bright side, my wife had only one minor spider incident. In the boat, she reflexively kicked our friend's butt to get rid of a small, menacing arachnid. (I purposefully didn't tell my love about the lodge's four pet tarantulas until we'd left). Not bad odds for the jungle!

Speaking about odds, meet Tex McKenna. The odds are stacked against this high school student: he's bullied, misunderstood, hip-deep in a murder mystery, and has just found out he's a witch. And it's only his sophomore year. Read the first book in the acclaimed Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy.

Adventures in the Amazon Day Two: Markets, Manatees and Misery

The prior night, our "Jungle Momma" told us to get lots of sleep because the next day would be jam-packed. I scoffed, nothing to it. Hey, I lived through a heart-pounding motokar city-wide trek!

Dumb. I'm soooo dumb. So very, very, very city-dumb.

I showed up in shorts. Jungle Momma chastised me, said "Nope. No. No way. You need two shirts, a long-sleeved shirt over a short-sleeved shirt. And long pants."

Grousing, dragging, I hauled myself upstairs and changed, wondering what the big deal was. I mean, it was a thousand degrees out and humid as Satan's sauna. Oh, what a naive, spoiled American I am!

First stop! The Belen market. The market is huge, supplying all of the food and goods for the entire city of Iquitos, population around 371,000 (plus ignorant tourists such as myself). 

But something didn't seem quite right. On the bus, there were two guards: one, a man strangely named "Clever" and a guy whose name I never caught. Clever warned us to watch our pockets, wallets, purses, and leave all but our necessities on the bus.

Hmm... Odd.

Ye gads, talk about overwhelming. More fish on display than an ocean could house, I wondered about the sanitation of it all. Clearly I needed to get over my Western way of thinking. Dogs and cats meandered about nonchalantly, inches away from food. Dead mice lay gutted at the foot of chicken corpses. Strange men mosied up, smiled, performed a kinda one-armed chicken dance. Ghastly things lay splayed out on merchant tables. Giant turtles were cut open with their eggs on display. Alligator heads and tails decorated tables.

 Thumb-sized larva and grubs ("Suri") wriggled about in baskets before being skewered and cooked. Like that annoying kid in eighth grade science class, I held one, showed it to the females until they "ewwwed." To get the full effect, I was willing to eat one until Jungle Momma shut me down.

Our guards stayed attached to us and I'm pretty dang glad they did. At the end of an hour-and-a-half, claustrophobia  set in. I couldn't move. An unwelcome realization dawned over me with the sledgehammer inevitability of a "duh" moment: "Hey, I think the locals might realize I'm a tourist." Not only am I the whitest guy in Kansas, but my Hawaiian shirt and camera were probably a giveaway.

Sweat began to percolate as we boarded the bus (air conditioning!). I thought I knew sweat. Turned out I hadn't even mounted the sweaty trail.

Up next was a visit to a medicinal herbal garden. (Our group was composed primarily of pharmacists, so it was kinda a big deal for them. Which made me arm candy, I suppose. Maybe more like an arm grub). But, I thought, "This will be a nice pleasant five minute stroll. We'll just drive up, park, get out, "ooh" and "ahh" over some plants, get back on the bus, and bask in air conditioning." Oh, naivete, your name is Stuart.

My wife grabs her purse, thrusts it at me to stuff into my backpack. (Embarrassing disclaimer: I've never worn a back-pack before. Back in my day {pay attention, whippersnappers!}, we carried our books.) Suddenly, Jungle Momma is tucking her pant legs into her socks. (The hell...?) Bug spray is lacquered on. Sun hats are strapped on. Shirt sleeves rolled down, buttoned, and double-checked. (Uh-oh...)

Just off the bus and already sweating, I follow the others' precautionary efforts. I don't really understand what all the fuss is for over a simple stroll through a garden. Right? RIGHT?

 That "simple stroll" turned into a three hour tour (worse than Gilligan's nightmares) through the jungle. And I'm wearing double shirts, long pants, and carrying my wife's forty pound purse (clearly she packed her bowling ball collection) in my backpack. Naturally, every intrepid explorer carries purses into the jungle.

On the left, my beautiful wife. I'm the guy wearing mustard so the anacondas can see me better.

We climbed up trails, slalomed down them, slipped through mud, dodged branches, the whole nine yards. I thought we'd never reach civilization again. I also thought a daily five miles of treadmill walking had prepared me for strenuous hiking. Such is the life of city sissies. Jumpin' Jehosophat, by the end of the tour--and with my "moobs"--I looked like I'd been hosed down for a wet t-shirt contest.

Tired travelers, weary pharmacists, and soaking wet big dumb guys in mustard.

Back on the bus, I sucked down a bottle of water and juice in seconds, dehydrated as a shrunken head. But relief was on the way as the next visit turned out to be a relatively low-key visit to a nature habitat dedicated to saving animals on the brink of extinction (due to hunting, eating, other "civilized" products) such as manatees, turtles (of which we saw the grotesque end result earlier), monkeys (monkey-head soup's big), and others. Great cause. Still, it's outside. And once I broke my sweat-seal, I never stopped draining. In fact, between the three men on the trip, we had a bit of a sweating competition. Hands down, I won, glad to know I'm good at something.

A tour of two museums followed. First up was the Museum of Indigenous Amazonian Cultures. Amazingly, there are still 200 tribes in the jungle who flat-out refuse to "civilize." The not so amazing reason is due to white man unleashing a lotta diseases and vile behavior on the indigenous in the past. Honestly, after seeing some of the lifestyles in Iquitos (and boorish American behavior), I kinda think the tribes made the right decision. 

Our final stop proved to be the most grueling one yet, the Boat Museum. While fascinating, the displays and tour took place on a boat. In closed, non-air-conditioned rooms. During the hottest part of the day. Give me the jungle heat any day. Now I know why they're called steamboats.

Finished! Back in the room, my shower was perhaps the finest I'd taken in my life, definitely in the pantheon of Top Three Showers ever.

On the next blog post, we travel down the Amazon River to...Monkey Island!

Speaking of traveling, you guys ever been to Kansas? No. What're you waiting for? Kansas is a nice, exotic, wonderful, getaway of a vacation for... Ah, who am I kidding? Kansas is downright frightening. But don't take my word for it. Here's a primer for you, a terrifying excursion into the twisted dark heart of the Midwest...Godland.

Plan your vacation now! Enjoy Godland!